


Mrs. Drew

by littlejeanniebean



Category: Hardy Boys - Franklin W. Dixon, Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries (TV), Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene, Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Super Mysteries - Franklin W. Dixon & Carolyn Keene
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlejeanniebean/pseuds/littlejeanniebean
Summary: Eight-year-old Nancy Drew is at home with her mother when what first appears to be a random break-in goes horribly wrong. With the help of Cub Scout Ned, surprisingly-good-code-breaker Bess, Oliver-Twist-impersonator George, and amateur detectives Frank and Joe, Nancy traces the events leading up to her mother's death and maybe, just maybe, can bring another family peace after their own loss.
Relationships: Carson Drew & Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew & Bess Marvin, Nancy Drew & Frank Hardy, Nancy Drew & Joe Hardy, Nancy Drew/Ned Nickerson
Kudos: 7





	1. Ice Cream in January

McGinnis breathed in deeply and exhaled even longer. The athletic red-head sitting in the uncomfortable chair beside his desk looked nothing like her father, but she was every inch a miniature of the dead women's league baseball player in the morgue. 

"Hullo, Nancy," he sat down noiselessly, "I'm Detective McGinnis."

There it was. Carson Drew's bright blue eyes bore up at him. "Hello, Detective. Did you know that when ice cream sales go up, so does crime?"

"I did, as a matter of fact. But it has more to do with the sun being nice and hot in the summer, less to do with the sugar."

She nodded like a teacher would, excited that a student had finally gotten the answer right. It wasn't hard to picture the freckled eight-year-old telling this factoid to her schoolmates, the initial thrill of being the only one who understood the true correlation quickly giving way to disappointment that no one else seemed to care much about that kind of thing. Now this excitement gave way to puzzlement, "But it's January."

"Yes, it is," he nodded solemnly. 

"What happens now, Detective?"

"Well, I just spoke to your father… He can't get a plane in this storm, I'm afraid, but he gave me the number of your maid -"

"Our housekeeper."

"Yes... Hannah Gruen. But you must stay with me and the missus until your father returns. Not in… _that_ sort of neighborhood."

"The Gruens live in a lovely part of town near a beautiful orchard. When you've finished asking me your questions, Detective, I'd like to call her, please."

"Nancy, we have the guy. And it's past midnight. You've been through a lot tonight. Questions can wait -"

"Oh, but they really can't. Interviewing witnesses while the event is freshest in their minds is central to developing a good case. Dad read a research paper by an old professor of his at Yale and told me all about it. Our memories are not infallible and it's already been five hours since… since it happened. I won't leave until you've taken my statement."

The young detective on the night shift was weary but he could easily put that aside when compared to what the child before him had experienced. "Very well," he took up his pen and notebook, "Tell me about it."

"The doorbell rang at almost nine. I couldn't sleep. Never could the first night Dad's away. Mom couldn't either so we were watching television in the living room.

"She opened the door and a masked man with a gun pushed his way in. He was six-feet tall, but very thin and walked around like he'd entered many houses this way before. He went into the kitchen and ate hearty, left hand shovelling Hannah's chicken salad with a spatula, right hand pointing his gun at us.

"His hands had bulging veins, hard calluses. When he lifted his mask up, we saw this horrible scar going down his neck from just below his left cheekbone. He had light blond scruff across his chin and the mayonnaise kept getting caught in it. His eyes between the slits cut in his mask weren't skittish at all. They were firm grey steel.

"He finished eating and told Mom to take him to the safe and open it. She led him upstairs and I tiptoed across the hall to the telephone as soon as they reached the landing. There was a sharp crack and an even louder bang. They were both dead by the time I got to the second floor."

McGinnis had never seen such a wry smile on someone so young.

"She really took him to bat," the girl's voice was hollow. 

He closed his notebook, his pen tucked between the pages, "I think we have everything we need. Thank you, Nancy," he shook her small hand and noticed the blood caked under her fingernails.

  
  


**Bonus scene:**

"Gee whiz, Georgie," Bess licked her sucker daintily while they waited outside in the icy yard, "She couldn't even step inside the mall yesterday. No way Hannah'd let her come to school today."

"Oh sure," her lanky cousin with a shaggy bowl cut gnawed on a stick of bright red licorice, "and Nancy's _just_ the sorta person to give up after just _one_ try."

"There's no shame in taking care of yourself. That's what Mama always - well, I'll be darned - Nancy!" 

The cousins ran to meet their friend.

"I'm not late, am I? I only stopped at the soda shop for a minute to buy some ice cream."

"In this weather?" George kicked up a few snowflakes to make her point.

The redhead just shrugged, the vanilla swirl in her gloved hand still holding its original form, "Why not?"


	2. Spunk and Will

"Since that night it's like I can sense  _ everything _ and recollect every  _ bit _ of it. I recognize the gait of almost everyone in town and can hear them coming a meter away on a busy street. And I know I'm not a savant because I don't have any other symptoms. I read all about it when Dad took a case involving a savant named Erving Slater. He's serving time now for corporate espionage…"

Eloise listened intently to her vibrant niece. Where her brother had retreated into a solemn - still warm, but not yet whole - state of existence, Nancy had thrown herself back into life with defiance, if not true wellness. 

"I spoke to the psychologist at school and he didn't believe me at first. So I told him what the girls gossipping outside his door were saying and he went out to ask them if I was right. He told me that I may have a form of PTSD."

"Did these girls happen to be Bess and George?"

"Yes, but  _ I _ know I'm telling the truth. I couldn't risk being wrong. I needed answers."

"So you scheduled some sessions?"

"Of course not! That would only worry Dad and Hannah. And isn't it a fun party trick to know what song the jukebox will play next by the sound of the mechanism clicking into place?"

"I suppose so."

"Say," Nancy shot up from her seat on the porch, "Evening paper's coming."

Sure enough, a ten-year-old boy with dirty blond hair rounded the corner on his bicycle, throwing papers onto people's doorsteps with conscientious aim, never missing once.

"Catch Nancy!" he threw her bundle, "Evening, Ms. Drew!"

"Thanks, Ned!" she'd caught it neatly and had begun pouring over the headlining story. 

Eloise waved at the boy distractedly. She knew better than to question her niece's fixation on the story, but her deepening frown was concerning.

"He never asked to see anyone else's safe," Nancy sipped her hot milk quietly, "He'd eat his fill, take their silverware and any other valuables he could readily see out in the open and carry in a garbage bag."

Eloise scanned the paper, "These other cases… a father, a husband, a big brother was always home. Perhaps he saw an opportunity when it was just you and your mom."

"A gun would make a convincing deterrent to  _ anyone _ regardless of gender... Dad keeps his files in the safe and he was on a case in New York. Usually he can tell us the gist of it without breaching confidentiality. That time? Nothing. And his trip was very short notice too. Did he say anything to you while he was there? Go anywhere besides the courthouse?"

"I… I don't know, Nancy…"

"Just try to think. Please?"

"... He'd... leave early and come back to the apartment late. He visited records I believe, but that's as standard as going to court. Of course, he could have gone anywhere for lunch and dinner and I wouldn't know it. Perhaps we could ask him -"

"No! No, this is… this is all speculation. The very idea that Mom… that she might still be with us if not for someone connected to a case of his… I don't know how he'd take it."

"Yes. And it's not even very likely, is it? The man was homeless, for landsakes. What interest could he possibly have in Carson's work?"

"He's homeless… Auntie, you're brilliant!"

"Why, thank you, but pray tell me how."

"It's not foolproof, but it's a start. I'll go to Walsh Street first thing!"

"What about school?"

"The shelters and missions all open at six. I'll have three whole hours. If I go with Bess and George we'll have covered the whole street by then."

"Nancy, Walsh isn't the best of places for a -"

"Please. Don't say 'child'. I stopped being a child when I stopped having a mother."

The girl looked eighteen instead of eight. Perhaps she'd just grown so much since Eloise last saw her. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't say such things. She's with me. Always. I'll always have her," Nancy gave her aunt a small smile and kissed her cheek, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Eloise watched her step inside the old brick house where it had all happened. She'd come to convince Carson to move to New York with his daughter and leave behind all the bad memories. He'd told her they'd also be leaving behind all the good ones.

"She's got her mother's spunk and her father's will, Ms. Drew," Hannah Gruen came out with a fresh cup of tea like she could read her mind, "And I look after her like one of my own young'uns, so don't you worry none. 'Course we love having you here with us, so stay as long as you want."

"Thank you, Hannah. But I've left my post for long enough as it is. My students must be raining hell on my poor substitute by now. Call me if you or either of them need anything."

"Yes, ma'am," said the capable housekeeper.


	3. Pavement Pounding

Every weary soul who sought a warm breakfast on Walsh that morning was met with a steaming cup of porridge accompanied by a question: Had they ever seen Daniel Rothill around these parts?

Nancy, Bess, and George each had a copy of his picture clipped from the newspaper, which they asked the men and few women to please look at closely. Most still said no, some expressed concern that a young person should be seeking out such a shady character, but one woman in an almost see-through pink nightgown with a very low neckline under her overcoat knew him.

"He'd stay at Eddie's for hours. Then he'd come across the street for the girls," and she was quick to add, "but I was always his favorite."

"I… I see," Bess pursed her lips uncomfortably, "Er, who's Eddie?"

"Eddie's is a watering hole, owner's Eddie Malone. Listen, could I just get the rest of my breakfast and be on my way?"

"Did he meet anyone there?"

"How should I know?"

"Hey!" came a booming shout from further back in the line, "What's the hold up? We're starving!"

Amidst the murmurs of agreement, Bess passed the woman a slice of bread and she moved on. 

George showed Rothill's picture to a burly man in an oversized coat and more holes in his fingerless gloves than he had fingers. 

"Just gimme my cup, boy," he made to grab it, but George, unbothered by the common mistake, nimbly hopped back from the counter.

"You know him then. Just gimme something to work with, Mister. Ain't no one gon' getcha for snitching now he's dead, eh?"

"Ain't him anyone oughta worry 'bout."

"Ah, got a crew? A boss?" she propositioned him with a particularly large slice of bread.

"Sometimes this fella drives up here, right? All fancy in his car with two muscle men. Looks for guys like us to do a job."

"This fella gotta name?"

"None that I know. His jobs always smelled off. Never took one."

"What's he look like? What's his car like?"

"That'll cost an extra cup."

"That's not mine to give, sir. How 'bout a pack of licorice?"

"... He's about five-ten. Brown hair going gray. Not bad looking, not particularly good either. His car's a black Cadillac."

"Pleasure doin' business with ya," George held up her end of the bargain.

Meanwhile, at the Jesuit mission, Nancy scarcely held the photograph up for a second before the slight, mousy young man took off in a sprint, "Hey!" she flung the heavy ladle, hitting him squarely on the back of his skull and caught up with him easily as he stumbled, "What've you got to hide?"

"What's the meaning of this?" Sister Thelma shook her by the shoulders. The middle-aged woman's labored breath fanned across the girl's face in puffy white clouds.

"He knows this man," Nancy showed her the picture and turned back to the scrawny boy-man, "How do you know him?"

"Ain't none of your business, girlie," he sneered.

"Is too if you're picking off people's things while they're standing in line just trying to get a decent meal. You have five watches ticking up each of your arms under those sleeves. And that silver rosary bracelet belongs to Sister Thelma, I believe."

The nun's left hand flew to her bare right wrist, "Well, I never!"

He tried to run again, but George leapt on him like a demented monkey until some men came to help bring him down.

"Hey, that's my watch, you rascal!" said one of them.

"Somebody call the cops!" said another.

Nancy slipped through under the elbows of the crowd, "Who are you and _how_ do you know Rothill?"

"I'm not sayin' a word! I know my rights!"

One of the men socked him in the jaw, "Answer the girl, yah mutt!"

"Alright, alright! Name's Billy Polick. I pawn his goods for him along with mine and he lets me keep a cut."

"Which shop?" asked Nancy.

"Johnson's. On fifth."

"Why couldn't he just do it himself?"

"In case anyone ever got an accurate description out, see? Danny's a real pro."

"I hope prison makes some adjustments to your ability to judge a man's character, Billy," Nancy turned on her heel and rejoined Bess and George.

A second later, the Walsh regulars heard the approaching sirens too and got Billy on his feet to hand over.


	4. Detective Stories

A ratty boy's outfit borrowed from the theatre department and Bess' artistic dusting of some pencil shavings later, even Mr. Fayne mistook his daughter for a street urchin when he came to fetch the cousins from school on his way home from work. 

"My little Oliver Twist," he ruffled her hair fondly when he realized his error. 

Nancy was waiting at the payphone across the street from Johnson's. After the cousins had called, she went in armed with the information George had learned posing as a boy looking for errand work at Eddie's. 

"Afternoon! A man named Harry Fletcher ever come through here? Got graying brown hair, five-ten, drives a black Cadillac."

"What business would a man who drives a Caddy haveta do 'round here?" the stout man behind the counter puffed on his pipe in an exceedingly bored manner. 

"How 'bout a kid named Billy Polick?"

"Don't know anyone by that name."

"Perhaps he used a different one then. He's scrawny, about five-seven with a cleft chin and dark hair."

"Oh, yeah, Gunther. He's a regular. Buys knick knacks at garage sales and tries to upsell 'em."

"Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid he's just been arrested for petty thievery. I suspect much if not all that he's sold you wasn't his own."

" _ What _ ?" he choked mid-puff, "Say, how's a little girl like you know these things anyway?"

"My father's Carson Drew, county attorney. Listen, your boy, Gunther -"

"He doesn't work for me. He sells me things, I buy them, I'm a victim here too!"

"You're going to have to prove you employed due diligence in verifying his legitimacy. How's your record keeping?"

"Look, missy, if that big-shot New York lawyer were really on the case, he'd be here asking questions - not you. Besides, you look nothing like him!"

"Did Gunther ever deliver a message through you?"

"Do I look like a post office? If you're not selling or buying, kid, you gotta leave!"

"Alright, I'll have a look around."

"Well, hurry up, we close soon," he repositioned himself more comfortably on his stool and continued puffing. 

Fletcher met with Rothill at Eddie's the night before he'd robbed the Drews'. They'd met several other nights before then, but Nancy couldn't connect those meetings to anything - yet.

She reexamined the list of items other households were still advertising for return, no questions asked. In the musty showroom she found a bronze statue of archangel Gabriel, a mantle clock depicting the Palace of Versailles in France, and a painted porcelain vase. The girl ran her fingers over the heavy statue from top to bottom, and did the same with the clock and the vase.

"I'll give you fifteen for these," she told Mr. Johnson.

"You can read the tags, can't you?"

"The statue is rusty, the clock doesn't tick, and the vase is chipped. I'll give you fifteen."

"If you don't want 'em, don't buy 'em."

"I  _ can _ read the tags and you've already marked them down three times. No one's buying them but me. I'll give you fifteen."

"...  _ Fine _ ," he took her money and gave her a flimsy cardboard box to carry the items. 

  
  


**Bonus scene:**

Nancy walked to the bus stop on tenth and waited. When a half hour passed and no bus came, she started walking again. 

"Hiya Nance," a boy rolled out of the alley behind the River Heights Daily on his bicycle laden with newspapers, "Need a ride?"

"Golly, Ned, you have the best timing, thank you," she strapped the box on the back and stood on the extensions on either side of his hind wheel. 

"Whatcha got back there anyway?"

"I found some of the stolen goods from Rothill's other robberies. They're not in the greatest condition, but someone oughta see if anyone wants them back."

"That's… that's really good of you, Nancy."

"Oh, don't say that, please. I'm just… following a… a 'hunch'. Being helpful is just a coincidence."

"There's no such thing as coincidences," he proclaimed, "You're not the only one who reads detective stories."

"Good to know," Nancy smiled.


	5. The Case

"Regis Johnson, I'm Carson Drew, attorney at law. You were the last person to see my daughter," the tall, dark-haired man took a photograph from his wallet, "Nancy."

"I… I… She bought some things… uh… lemme -"

"My friend on the force is meeting me here, so you better tell me where she is right  _ now _ !"

"She  _ left _ at, uh… at around five!"

"That was over an hour ago. Did you see where she went?"

"No, sir," he shook his head frantically, loose cheeks flopping.

"What did she buy?"

"Uh…" he retrieved the receipt, "A statue, a clock, and a vase."

"Did she say anything while she was here?"

"Yeah, yeah, she asked about a man named Harry-something and a boy, Billy Polish or something. I've never heard of the man before but I knew the boy as Gunther Mullet."

Carson handed him a card with a sharp flick, "Call the bottom number if you have anything else for me."

A sandy-brown Chevy parallel parked in front of his Ford.

"Eugene, thank you for coming," he shook hands with the detective, "She left the store at five. I'm going to check with the businesses near the bus stop -"

"Carson, she radioed on our channel."

"She… What?"

"Nancy used the Nickerson boy's cub scout radio. I spoke to her just as I was driving here. She's safe. The bus skidded into a snow drift by Venn Park so she just took a little longer to get home. That's all."

"Oh, that's…" the harried father took a moment to catch his breath, "that's a relief…" then his bright blue eyes snapped to attention, "Say, this bus, is everyone alright?"

"Yeah, just might grumpy to have to walk home in the cold, is all."

The lawyer nodded, satisfied, "Johnson said she asked after a 'Billy Polish'… Didn't you fellas arrest a kid named William Polick on Walsh Street this morning?"

"S'matter of fact, we did. Witnesses say a redheaded girl and a dark-haired boy were the first to find him out and collar him. Sounds like Nancy had a busy day."

"I'll say. And that was no boy, I'll bet. That was George Fayne, which means Bess Marvin would've been there too," Carson fished his keys out of his pocket, "I'll check in with their parents on my way back. Sorry to drag you out here in the middle of supper, Eugene. Have a good night!"

"Goodn - Oh! How did you know Nancy had been here anyway?"

"She leaves a coded note in her locker at school if she's not going straight home. It's a system we've had since… since it's just been the two of us and Hannah. Just in case."

Nancy stuck her arm down the mouth of the vase and felt along the smooth porcelain sides. 

"What are you looking for?" asked Hannah Gruen curiously.

"A clue."

"Didn't find it in the statue or the clock?"

"Not yet. Dad's tool box isn't in its usual place. I need the screwdriver to take the clock apart. And the flathead piece to pry the felt from the underside of the statue's base - it has a round protrusion there."

"Don't know much 'bout clocks, but you don't need no flathead for the statue. Bring it to the laundry room, let me show you a neat little trick," the housekeeper sprayed some water on the felt and began to iron it, "If they'd stapled it, that'd be a different story, but because they used glue…" the felt peeled off smoothly, "Violá! You can even glue it back on and no one would be the wiser."

"Hannah, you're incredible!" Nancy thumbed the glue off the foreign coin, "What does it look like to you?"

"It's all Greek to me," she shrugged, but so absorbed in her observation, Nancy missed her tone.

"It's the right alphabet, but Greek currency doesn't look like this anymo-"

"Nancy!"

"Dad!" she clutched the coin tightly in her little fist and ran to him, "I'm sorry I worried you - I never meant to! It's exactly the opposite!"

"No need to be sorry, my dear," he held her tightly, "What've you got there?"

She showed him the old coin. 

"Where did you get this?" his face paled as he sat down on the bench in their foyer.

"It… it was stuck under the statue Billy Polick pawned, but it was originally stolen from the Gardeners by… by Daniel Rothill."

Hannah had gone and returned with a cup of tea for Mr. Drew, an always comforting bustle to her step.

"This coin…" Carson cupped his daughter's lithe hand in his own large ones, "This coin was at the centre of the case I was working on in New York that night."


	6. You Won't Regret This

_ Six months ago... _

Agathe stood at the cliff's edge overlooking the crystal waves, empty urn in hand, "Another treasure for these waters... Goodbye, Papa."

The young woman pulled her deep green cardigan close, got back into her silver convertible and drove home only to find it surrounded by police. 

"Ti simaínei aftó?" she demanded to know what was going on.

"Christien St. Paul," a suited man removed himself from his team, "Interpol. We'd like to ask you some questions about your father, Ms. Stuoli." 

"He's a respected professor at Panepistímio Athinón. Whatever you're thinking, it's wrong."

Agent St. Paul appraised the small blonde, "He travels frequently, yes?"

"He's a guest lecturer in high demand," she crossed her arms, "And this is  _ private _ property."

"We believe he was murdered, Ms. Stuoli."

"...  _ What _ ?"

"Does this mean anything to you?" he held up an ancient coin in a clear evidence bag. 

"It was my father's. An artefact he was preparing for the museum. He put it in his mouth before he jumped. What are you  _ here _ for?"

"It was stolen from the precinct evidence locker and turned up again here."

Agathe leaned against the low stone wall in front of the cottage she'd lived in with her father. "Is it… a threat?"

"Is there a reason you suspect that?"

She stood straight once more, sharp features impassive, "No; only  _ you _ come here literally screaming bloody murder - clearly,  _ you _ suspect something."

"We just want to ask you a few questions," he held the car door open for her. 

"I'd like to make a phone call first," Agathe strode back down the sloping street, the man trailing behind until she pointedly shut the booth door and fed some coins into the slot, "Mother, don't you dare hang up. Not now with Papa gone… Of course I need something, that's why I'm calling… Listen, Papa would have  _ never _ supported you like I have since you left him and you  _ know _ it. Now hold up your end of the bargain and get me to America."

_ Five months ago… _

"Detective Hardy?" a blonde woman who smelled like the sea stepped shyly into the second floor office.

"Just a civilian now, Miss…?"

"Stevens," her lips moved around the name like she wasn't used to saying it, "But you  _ are _ a detective?"

"Private investigator."

"Do you work internationally?"

"I go wherever the clues take me, Ms. Stevens," he pulls back a chair for her, "Coffee?"

"No, thank you," she laid a folder on his desk, "I heard your rates are very good."

"Just a dollar-eighty an hour," he gave her a paper to write down her contact information, "and only when the case is solved."

"You must be very new or very good."

He chuckled, "I like to think those two things aren't mutually exclusive. So… you want me to find a smuggler's murderer."

" _ Alleged _ smuggler."

"Alleged," he corrected himself and studied the arch of her brow, to the point where it connected to her Grecian nose, all along her round jaw. The smuggler had a thick brown beard and eyebrows over those features, but Fenton Hardy would bet money he was her father. 

_ Four months ago… _

"He didn't do it, Carson, I'm tellin' you," the private investigator told him over the phone, "Listen, I'm in NYC right now. She's facing trial for aiding and abetting  _ nothing  _ -"

"He still broke several international laws, Fenton -"

"But not  _ this _ one. And I know you agree with me on this: justice takes no shortcuts."

"So the coin was fake. No one's perfect, he could have easily -"

"It's not just the one coin. The entire chest. Even the agent I spoke to at Interpol is looking into the man they call 'Pops.' He won't admit it yet, but he's coming around to the idea that Leonard Stuoli isn't the big fish they thought he was."

"... I'll finish up what I got here and fly out. Contact David Anderson with Fisher and Byrnes. He's just a junior associate now, but he's solid. He'll take care of the preliminaries for you in the meantime."

"She's a good kid, Carson. You won't regret this."

_ Three months ago... _

"Carson, it's Fenton…  _ Christ _ , I… I don't know what to say… Laura and I… We send our condolences to you and your family… Carson? Carson, are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry… And I'm sorry I couldn't stay for the verdict. How'd it go?"

"There won't be one."

"... What?"

"Agathe…  _ Christ _ , poor kid, she…"

"She  _ what _ , Fenton?"

"She tied her bedsheet to the rotating fan in her room, the other end around her neck…"

" _ Mother… _ "

"... turned the damn thing on…"

" _ No _ ... No, I talked to her. We  _ both _ talked to her. She was of sound mind - hell, she was  _ fighting _ -"

"I thought so too."

"Wait a minute, did they find a coin on her?" the lawyer's voice regained some vigor.

"No call sign associated with any international arts smuggler operating in the last fifteen years. I'll keep digging as long as I can, but Interpol's made threats on my license..."

"Of course, you do what you have to..."

"I'm sorry, I know you didn't need to hear this now."

"No, no, thank you for calling," Carson pressed his fist to his lips and seriously considered shoving the whole thing into his mouth as tears began to flow freely. 

"Please call us if you need anything, alright? You have a lot of friends here in Bayport."

"Thanks, Fenton," he hung up and sunk to the floor. 


	7. A Great Lead

Nancy slept better than she had in a while after her father briefed her on the case and made some calls. It was almost eleven when she trotted downstairs in a fitted blue jumper over a crisp white blouse. 

A dark haired, bold-featured woman with beautiful violet eyes was hunched over the coffee table, hand lens pinched delicately between two elegant fingers as she examined what must've been fifty Greek coins spread out next to a dismantled old clock and the bronze statue. 

Carson Drew sat patiently in his armchair across from her. He saw Nancy at the foot of the stairs and beckoned her over.

"Why don't you wait until after lunch to go to school, hmm?" he asked her quietly.

"Why didn't you or Hannah wake me, hmm?" she returned cheekily.

"We tried, you wouldn't stir. I told Mrs. Layton I was concerned you were coming down with something, and she said to take as long as you need to recover."

The visitor finally stirred, her spine popping softly as she did.

"Hello, Miss. I'm Nancy Drew," the girl offered her hand.

The woman shook it firmly, holding her small hand between calloused palms, "I'm Yolanda Shannon, anthropology professor. Congratulations on a magnificent find, Ms. Drew."

"They're genuine?" the lawyer leaned in.

"Yes, and they've been exposed to the elements for much too long. You must allow me to take them back to the university with me and store them properly."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," he said just as the doorbell rang, "and that'll be just the man to explain why."

Hannah showed a tall blond man into the living room, "Mr. St. Paul, Mr. Drew."

"The professor says they're genuine, Agent," he shook his hand, "but I assume you'll want your own people to verify it."

"That is protocol, although I'm sure the professor's expertise is _tremendous_ ," he spoke through a strong French accent and kissed her hand, "We've been looking for these stolen artefacts a long time and delight that we'll be able to return them to the government of Greece."

"I'll leave you gentlemen to it then," she took up her briefcase, "I have a lecture to make."

At this, Nancy looked up from the already half-mended clock, "Dad, since Mrs. Layton isn't expecting me…" she inclined her head in the professor's direction.

"You may ask her," her father smiled.

"Professor Shannon," the girl jumped up and grabbed her jacket by the door, "May I please attend your lecture? My dad says I can if it's alright with you."

"Do you have an interest in ancient history?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then you certainly can."

"But take some sandwiches with you, girl," Hannah fussed like only she could as she saw them out the door.

"The coins were found in these items, yes?" queried the agent.

"Yes," said Carson, "the clock was stolen from the Bellagios in Deerfield, the statue from the Gardeners three blocks from here. The thief was a man named Daniel Rothill. Talk to Detective McGinnis with the police department. He'll give you everything you need to reopen the investigation and clear the Stuolis' names."

"You're still convinced Pops is someone else, I see. Only the guilty kill themselves, Mr. Drew."

"No, those who've given up hope do too."

Christien shook his hand, "I'll be in touch."

"Thanks for stopping by on such short notice."

"Thanks for the tip," he collected the coins and the stolen items, then left.

Carson phoned the office of Fenton Hardy in Bayport, "Have you been paid a visit by our cagey Frenchman lately?"

"Yeah, I busted some jewelry smugglers in the port. How'd you know?"

The lawyer brought him up to speed, "He just seemed to get here awful quick when I called, is all. And he didn't ask for contact information for our neighbors when I told him about the stolen items."

"He's Interpol."

"Right."

"This is a great lead, Carson."

"I hope so."

"Well, it's all any of us can do sometimes, isn't it?"

"Is this one of those times?"

"We keep our ears to the grapevine, help out where we can, like always."

"Right."

  
  


**Bonus scene:**

"Nancy, this is my daughter, Deirdre," the professor introduced the eight-year-olds.

Deirdre was talking with some of her much older classmates.

"Hi," the redhead proffered her hand.

"I don't shake hands," the dark-haired girl did an abrupt about-face and took a seat in the front row.

"Deirdre's a high-functioning savant," her mother explained, "do you know what that means?"

"Yes," Nancy observed the other girl strike up a debate with one of the older students, "She's gifted. Is it alright if I sit next to her?"

"Of course," the professor walked up to the podium to begin the lecture.

"I'm sorry if I upset you earlier," Nancy whispered.

"You're the girl whose mother died," Deirdre kept her eyes trained on the projector screen.

"Err… ye-"

"You're looking for someone to bond with the way you used to bond with her. It's quite pathetic."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Just like you heard me defend the reality of evolution. Why take a class on human history if you don't believe in its origins? It's stupid."

Nancy blinked repeatedly and willed the tightness out of her nose.

"Do you disagree?"

"... No."


	8. Running Around

"We were worried _sick_ when you didn't show, Nan!" Bess hugged her tightly when they met at the bus stop. 

"Speak for yourself," George pulled her teeth casually on a stick of licorice, "Our girl's never met a mountain she couldn't move. Any leads from the pawnshop?"

"Were there ever!" the red-head brought them up to speed, "I was just at the Bellagios'. They bought the clock from a gypsy caravan coming in from Bayport. I'm going to see the Gardeners next, and I'll have to phone the other households out of town to see if there's some sort of common denominator."

"We'll help you, won't we, George?"

"Sure thing," said the tom-boy.

The Gardeners also bought the statue from a gypsy caravan. Mrs. Gardener remembered a psychic lady with long braided locks and deer-like eyes who read her palm.

The other households who they could reach and would entertain their questions had either bought their stolen wares from the caravan or at a souvenir shop in Bayport called The Trumpet Shell, but when the girls looked it up in the phone directory, they couldn't find it.

"Maybe they're running it out of their home," Bess suggested.

Nancy called a private number, "Afternoon, Mrs. Hardy, it's Nancy Drew. Are Frank and Joe home? … Hey boys, do you know a souvenir shop called The Trumpet Shell? … Smugglers! You don't say… You've both been a great help, thanks!"

"Well?" George prompted impatiently.

"They never advertise because the entire shop is a front! Mr. Hardy just busted them for smuggling and apparently, the French agent who came by is involved there too. This means Harry Fletcher and his Irish mob are in the ring too."

"Did the Stuolis decide they wanted out and were silenced by this Pops character?" asked Bess nervously.

"The only unexplored lead we have on this side of the Atlantic is the mysterious caravan and I know who can find them!" proclaimed Nancy.

Hannah stopped her in the foyer, "Your father will be home in fifteen and dinner will be ready in thirty."

"Then we'll make the best time if we leave right now," she kissed the housekeeper's cheeks.

Nancy knocked the special knock of the cub scout club house on the edge of the woods beyond the country club golf course.

"Hullo, Nancy," Ned grinned, "Bess, George, what's new?"

"Can you boys track a gypsy caravan for us?" she described the psychic lady Mrs. Gardener told them about.

"That's not much to go on," the smallest one, Dave, mused.

"When did they come through?" asked Ned.

"Around five months ago. They were in Cloverdale before that and in Bayport some time before then."

"So coming from the northeast..." Burt drew their path on the map they'd pinned to the wall.

"I think we know the tribe you're looking for and could show you their regular camping grounds, but they probably won't be back in the area until spring," Ned put up a map of just Illinois, "They'd be wintering in Florida now."

"Alright, let's go!" Nancy shifted her weight from one foot to another anxiously.

"Supper's ready, over," their two-way radio crackled to life.

"Thanks Mom, over and out," Ned responded.

"Or we could go tomorrow," the young sleuth suggested.

"School," said Bess and Dave as one.

"And we have hockey practice after," Burt gestured between himself and George.

"We can still go ourselves," said Ned.

Bess worried her bottom lip between her teeth, "But if the gypsies _are_ involved -"

"- they're in Florida," Nancy finished. 

As soon as the last bell rang the next day, the young sleuth-in-the-making was out the door and meeting Ned at the bicycle racks. They pedalled at a breakneck pace down Main Street and continued clear out of town until they reached a creek on thin ice, beyond which lay thick winter pines.

"Just a mile ahead," the scout dismounted and checked his compass.

"Thanks for everything, Ned."

"Anytime, Nan."

"I just have all these questions and they all blur together so… maybe if I can answer one, the others won't be far behind."

"That makes sense."

"Good," she almost bumped into him as he stopped suddenly at the edge of a clearing, "Golly, it's a ghost camp."

"The cold preserved it quite a bit," Ned stepped carefully over the wagon tracks that formed a tight circle, "What are we looking for?"

"Anything that might tell us who these people are," Nancy leaned down to examine the long-dead campfire. She brushed the ash off a thick, waxen card. 

The color had faded badly and the edges were charred, but she could just make out the letters 'Myst--' and '-eadings' underneath a picture of a woman with woodland eyes and a coil of braids atop her small head.

"One of the wagons doubled back it looks like," the boy examined some disturbed branches at the edge of the camp site, "They joined the group, then left the way they came. Whatcha got there?"

She showed him the card, "This is the tribe we're looking for. Let's follow these tracks."

They eventually led back to the muddy main road.

"Ned, look!" Nancy knelt down and reached under what had once been a leafy bush. The coil of braids were in fact a single head piece. She examined the underside and found some light blonde tendrils so fine you could mistake them for worn threading. 

"What's she running from?"

"Well, if we find her, we can ask."


	9. Mother

_ An athletic young woman sipped a mug of Earl Grey, curled up in her husband's armchair. _

_ She didn't know she was being watched from between the banisters of the stairs. _

_ "Mom?" the voice came from within. _

_ "Can't sleep either, can you?" she sounded tired and far away, "I'll heat some milk for you." _

_ She disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back, she was still Mom, but she looked different. Her hair was blonde instead of fiery red and put up in a big braided coil like a crown.  _

_ The doorbell rang. A shot rang out from somewhere that couldn't be seen and the woman collapsed.  _

Nancy awoke in a cold sweat and crept downstairs to fix herself a glass of milk. It was almost four in the morning. 

Detective McGinnis had said they couldn't just go hunting for a woman they couldn't connect to any crime. Her father was keeping the wig in his study for now, but it had been too late in the day just as it was too early now to call on the shop where it was made. 

The girl made a noise of frustration. 

"Morning sweetheart," her father rasped wearily. He looked older than his thirty years in the dim light of the fridge. 

"Morning. Are you travelling today?"

"Oh, no… No, I… couldn't sleep… You neither?" he tucked into the leftover tuna sandwich. 

Nancy shook her head and poured him a glass of warm milk from the kettle.

"Thank you, Nance," he held her small hands across the table.

"I think… I think this gypsy mystic... could be the missing link… She must know things that could make this all make sense, I just… don't know how…"

"You know, in Mr. Hardy's line of work, they call that a hunch."

"What does he do with it?"

"Well, he likes to see how it plays out. You do enough digging in enough spots that look right, you'll find water."

"Water," she smiled, "Not gold?"

"That's what I asked him. He said, 'Water flows, like information, like secrets. What is gold but another commodity to trade with? But  _ water _ \- that stuff, we live on.'"

"... You're pulling my leg; he didn't say that!" Nancy laughed, thinking of practical, minimalist Mr. Hardy getting all philosophical.

Carson chuckled, "Oh, you ply him with a few beers, he can turn into quite the poet."

"Dad!" a wide smile stretched across her freckled cheeks in contrast to her admonition.

When their laughter died down, her father said, "You should try and get some more sleep. You have a test today, don't you?"

Nancy nodded, "Can I just look at the wig one more time?"

He fished his keys out of his robe and handed them to her. 

The girl unlocked the sturdy oak cabinet in his home office and brought out the head piece. Her sensitive fingers ran along the coarse interior until the unwinding end of a loose thread was felt. Nancy's blue eyes dilated as she used her nails to pry it out from the folded seam where it was wedged tightly. She pulled on the thread and a small pouch was revealed. 

"Dad!" 

"Well, I'll be…" he came to kneel beside her, "What are these stains?"

"I was hoping you knew. It can't be run-of-the-mill ink otherwise she wouldn't hide it this way."

"I agree. And this powder stuff is curious too. I'll ring Professor Shannon at first light."

Hannah arrived at six, just as Carson finished speaking with Fenton Hardy, who'd visited the wigmaker in New York. 

"The man denied knowing anything about a secret pouch," the lawyer related to his daughter, "but Fenton will keep on him, see if he feels spooked into doing anything or reaching out to anyone."

"Don't this household know the meaning of the word, 'sleep'?" the housekeeper tutted.

"Good morning, Hannah," the Drews chorused. 

The doorbell rang. 

"That'll be the professor," Carson opened the door, "Hello, and who's this young lady?"

Nancy never felt a churning in her stomach at the thought of seeing anyone before. 

"My daughter, Deirdre," the woman smiled warmly, "Do you want to say 'hi' to Mommy's friend, baby?"

"No!" she tried to run back into the car, but her mother stopped her. 

"I'm sorry," Yolanda took the girl into her arms with some difficulty, "she's having a particularly bad day…"

"It's quite alright. Nancy, why don't you show Deirdre your mom's snowglobes?" Carson turned back to the professor, "The study is just through here."

"I don't like snowglobes," Deirdre pouted when they were alone in the living room, "They serve no purpose."

"They make excellent paper weights," Nancy deadpanned, "We have encyclopedias too."

The visitor quirked her pretty eyebrows in interest, but only shrugged, "Fine."

In the study, Yolanda chuckled and pocketed her hand lens.

"What's so funny?" asked Carson, amused. 

"It's cosmetics," she laughed.

"... Oh," he chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, "but… why hide it this way?"

Yolanda touched her red lips in thought, "... You know… we use chemicals of a similar sort when we make our children's exhibits at the university museum."

"So she's an artist."

She tilted her head at him, "A forger would be the technical term, I believe."

"Of course, of course…" he nodded, "Well, thank you for your valuable insight, Professor."

"Anytime and please, call me Yolanda."

The parents stopped short at the edge of the living room.

"She doesn't usually get on with people," the woman admitted, "But even the other day, she would talk to Nancy at length. You're lucky to have such a special girl." 

"She takes after her mother," said Carson, humbly. 

"Say, if you ever need anything, one single parent raising a daughter to another…" she gazed up at him.

"Thank you."

"Mom, not him!" Deirdre slammed the large encyclopedia shut on Nancy's hand and didn't seem to notice, "I don't want to share you! I don't want a  _ sister _ ! I don't want to live in this  _ haunted _ house! I -"

"Baby, please -" Yolanda's cheeks were bright red, "I'm sorry. We should go."

"It's quite alright," Carson assured her. 

Mother and daughter left quickly nonetheless. 

"Dad…" Nancy spoke quietly, massaging her hand, "... Do you like Professor Shannon?"

"I love your mother and I always will," he held her close.

"But… could you be happy by yourself?" she whispered into his dress shirt.

"Does good ol' Hannah have any plans to leave?"

"Not that I know…"

"And are  _ you _ going anywhere?"

"Never!" his daughter vowed.

"Then how could I ever be by myself?"

They stayed like that a while, holding each other in the foyer.


	10. The Hardy Boys

"Joe, Dad's gonna kill us!" hissed the older boy with coal-black hair. 

"Really? The same man who believes there's no such thing as a perfect crime?" his beach-blond brother chortled.

"He also likes to say there's no such thing as a perfect person," Frank deadpanned.

"Will  _ you _ pick it then? Wigman will be back any minute," Joe shoved the kit into his brother's lap.

The other boy sighed and popped the lock in ten seconds flat. 

The younger one dove into the drawer eagerly, "Receipts…"

"... pack of gum…"

"... business cards…" 

"Gee whiz, Frank, there's nothing here. I  _ told _ you this was a bad idea."

His brother's eyebrows shot up indignantly, " _ You  _ told -"

The shop bells jingled and the boys ducked under the counter.

"Back way," Frank whispered and army-crawled into the store room. 

"Hey, wait a minute," Joe enclosed his fingers around a metal ring underneath one of the shelves, "There's a trap door under here!"

"Keep your voice down!" 

"You go out the back, then come in the front. Get him out so I can get in here."

Frank grabbed his brother by his shirt collar and hauled him out.

When they were standing safely in the alley, Joe gave him a good shove, "We were  _ literally _ right on top of something!"

"Something that would've been  _ inadmissible _ in court if we'd found it that way, genius!"

"Boys?" a voice they knew all too well came from inside the big garbage bin. 

"Dad?" they whirred around.

"I work here, what's your excuse?" he climbed out, his old jeans badly soiled.

"It's our lunch break," shrugged Joe, "We went for a walk."

" _ Frank _ ," said their father sternly.

"He's got a trap door under a shelf in his store room."

"Tattle," Joe huffed.

His brother elbowed him, "We need to work together, Dad. If I go in there alone and act like I can make trouble for him, he might do something desperate and we'll get to see what he's hiding down there."

"I don't like what you're suggesting," Fenton Hardy crossed his arms, "There are so many ways that could go wrong. He didn't flinch when I accused him of aiding and abetting smugglers and he didn't go running for help when he thought I'd left. He's either innocent or he's  _ good _ and won't be as clumsy as that."

"I got it!" Joe snapped his fingers, "I'll enter from the back, steal something from his store room loudly, Dad will call the cops and in the meantime offer his investigative services, 'discover' the trap door, and the police will  _ have _ to look around."

"... Why am I actually considering this?" the P.I. massaged his temple.

"It's a good plan, Dad," said Frank, "Joe, take one of the dark-haired wigs we saw back there, then take it off when you round the corner, I'll be there so Wigman will think it was me and I'll stall him. You can meet Dad in the store and put back whatever you take. No one will be the wiser."

Fenton threw his hands up in resignation, "Not a word to your mother about this."

It worked like a charm.

"Conrad," Fenton clapped his easy-going former partner in the back.

"Hello, Officer Riley," Joe smiled innocently. 

"Hello, Hardy Boys, where's the other one?"

"Caught the little rascal," a wiry middle-aged man held Frank by the scruff of his neck, "but he won't tell me what he did with my tool kit, the no good -"

"Because I didn't take it!" the boy protested, willing some convincing tears into his eyes.

"Well, let's have a look, shall we? Workshop in the back, sir?" at the owner's nod, Conrad led the way into the store room and began to look around.

"I'll help you look," Fenton casually examined the shelves before dropping down to check underneath them.

Frank and Joe shared a glance as they heard the wigmaker's footsteps backing away slowly.

"Say, Mr. Quentin!" the P.I. drawled, "We found your tool kit, but your building isn't zoned for a basement. Would you mind opening up this trap door for us?"

The shop bells jingled.

"Oh, no, you don't!" the Hardy boys tackled the man to the ground. 

"What are you hiding?" Frank demanded.

"Who's the gypsy woman you made that braided wig for?" asked Joe.

"I'm not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer! I know my rights!" he barked.

Officer Riley cuffed him to his chair behind the counter while Mr. Hardy pushed the shelf aside. 

"Sweet peas and potatoes!" Joe exclaimed looking among the priceless European artefacts kept in the musty basement.

"That's never going to catch on, but I agree with the sentiment," Frank gaped at the log book of every illegal transaction, "Look, this must be the chest of coins from the Stuolis' case - the dates match, but they're all marked 'L' instead of 'S' or 'I'... for lost maybe? Then 'S' would mean 'sold' and 'I' would mean 'inventory'?" 

"Good a guess as any," Fenton clapped his boys on the back.

"Mr. Quentin," Conrad appealed to the perpetrator upstairs, "this will go a lot easier on you if you tell us everything you know now."

"No, you don't understand! He'll kill me too now that I'm blown!"

"We can protect you, just tell us who."

  
The wigmaker scoffed and laughed deliriously, "No one is safe when Pops has you  _ marked _ !"


	11. The Marvin Farm

The first spring chinook blew through River Heights like a hurricane. School was cancelled until the barren trees stopped falling over. 

"I'm so bored," George groaned, sprawling her limbs across her cousin's very pink bed.

"Mm-hmm," Bess held her petite tongue between her teeth as she perfected her cross stitch.

"The Drews' line is still busy..."

The blonde's needle and thimble just kept clicking calmly. 

"... Maybe the telephone poles went down."

_ Click-click-click-click. _

" _ Ugh _ , I'm so bored."

As if in agreement, the phone rang out in the hallway.

"I'll get it!" George yanked the receiver off the wall, "Nancy? … Oh, hi, Grandma… Yeah, of course! You're not letting anyone drive the mower but me! … Great, see you soon, bye!"

"You should invite Nancy to come with us!" Bess called, "She could use a break from this mystery."

Frank and Joe Hardy had phoned the Drews as soon as the wigmaker signed his confession. The woman they were looking for went by the name Claire Buchard, but the police and their father's contacts in New York City were unable to find anyone by that name matching her description and it was the same in River Heights. Nancy had resorted to calling hotels and way-stations along the strip of I-90 between them, which even she admitted was a long-shot. 

"I’ll try them again as soon as she puts the phone down long enough!" said the tom-boy, trying their number again, "Jeepers, Nance, finally! Wanna come to the Marvin farm with us for spring cleaning? ... Yeah, even Gramps Marvin took boarders last summer to tide over until the harvest, why? … Alright, we'll pick you up next week."

"Don't tell me," Bess didn't even look up from her sewing, "the game's still afoot?"

"You know Nancy. Never a dull moment."

That weekend, they set off in a downpour, a mild one by comparison to the storms before it, but Bess still clung fretfully to George’s side at every sharp turn on the narrow country road. 

“Look out!” Mrs. Marvin cried suddenly as lightning illuminated the dreary sky and a small, wet figure standing in the middle of the road. 

Mr. Marvin swerved and they careened off the road with a sloppy splash, “Is everyone alright?”

“I think I’ve gone deaf,” George spoke tonelessly just above normal volume, “You’ve got a mean set of lungs, Cuz.”

"Sorry!" squeaked Bess.

“Did we hit someone?” Mrs. Marvin looked back nervously.

“I’ll go check,” said her husband, “you girls wait here.”

“Nancy, Dad said to wait!” Bess reached out for her friend, who was already making tracks for the road.

“I know I’m not your Dad,” Mr. Marvin said when he saw her, "but he  _ is _ counting on me to bring you back home safely, you know."

“A little rain never hurt anybody,” she kept the pelting drops out of her keen blue eyes with her poncho hood.

“And it looks like we didn’t either,” he lifted his hat slightly to get a better view of their surroundings, “That’s good.” 

“But where did they go?” the girl observed that the sludge at their feet couldn’t hold any tracks, “They couldn’t have gone far in this storm - they’ll need a ride.”

“Perhaps they had one and we just didn’t see it. We’ll come back and look around after the storm passes, just in case.”

Nancy couldn’t deny the sense in his decision and followed him back to the car. 

“It’s not starting!” Mrs. Marvin frantically pulled him inside. 

One, two, three false starts later, it coughed back to life, “Ah, we’re not stranded yet!”

“Oh, don’t say it like that, Dad!” Bess drew her coat closer around her shivering body. 

After some clever maneuvering by Mr. Marvin, they drove out of the muddy ditch and continued on their way. 

“You made it!” Grandma Bess, whom little Bess was named for, came out to meet them despite the rain, “We were so  _ worried _ when we heard the weather report changed - you should’ve  _ waited _ a little longer before coming all this way with the kids.”

“Ah, it’s alright, Mom,” Mr. Marvin kissed her cheek, “A little rain never hurt anybody.”

“But we  _ did _ swerve into a ditch!” George's tone would've been more commonplace if she'd said they'd just come from the county fair, “Hiya, Gramps!”

“Georgie-Porgie! How’s my boy?” he lifted her into the air, “Were you scared at all?”

“Not a bit!”

“Oh, Gramps, don’t encourage her, please,” Mrs. Marvin kissed his cheek in greeting, “My sister has enough trouble with this one as it is.”

“Don’t you mind her,” Gramps whispered to his favorite grandchild, “And who’s this?”

“This is our friend, Nancy,” said George proudly, “She’s a detective.”

“Is that right?” said the old man with a twinkle in his eye.

“Just an amateur,” Nancy blushed.

“Are you working on a case, right now, Detective?” 

“Yes, actually,” she took out the picture she had of Claire Buchard, “Have you ever seen this woman? Some time in the last few months, perhaps?”

“Why yes, ma’am. She’s boarding over at the Callingwood’s.”

“Can we go?” Nancy and George asked in unison.

“Once the storm lets up,” the red-head clarified.

“And once we finished our chores,” George added helpfully. 

“I don’t see why not,” shrugged Gramps with a grin.

“I’ll send over some pot roast with you,” said Grandma Bess, “Now, will you all come inside and out of the cold? Gramps, show them to their rooms while I finish off the stew.”

The farmhouse was built almost fifty years ago, but the Marvins took such good care of it, the cherry-red wood still shone and the floorboards didn’t creak - except for the fifth and fourth step up from the landing, left intentionally by Great-grandfather Marvin so he would know whenever his kids snuck out.

The girls shared a room that had been made up specially by Grandma Bess with her best quilts and curtains. After a hearty supper, they all slept soundly. 

Halfway through the night, it stopped raining, and the next day was dedicated to clean-up. Nancy and Bess were in charge of clearing the extensive grounds while George followed behind them in the driven mower. After that, there were linens to be aired, floors to be washed, and Nancy’s personal favorite, attic to be sorted. 

“Look at this!” she picked up an ornate umbrella holder with some difficulty, “Now, where have I seen this before?” 

“It looks just like the cute one the Tophams have,” Bess dusted off her pleated skirt, “I remember because I thought I lost my satin bow when we went visiting, you know the lovely green one with pink roses… Anyway, you found it for me - turns out it had fallen into it from my jacket somehow.”

“I remember… It… Oh, Bess… I think this  _ is _ the Topham’s - look, it has the same scratches on the rims from their cat who’s always trying to climb into it.”

“Golly… How did it end up here?” 

Nancy stuck her arm into it and pulled it out to examine the size of the holder from the outside, then she stuck her arm in again. 

George climbed down from the rafters to get a closer look and showed Bess a cool vintage camera slide she’d found. If you held it up to the light, you could see the farmhouse before the garage extension and a separate kitchen wing were added.

“What’s going on down here?” the tom-boy asked. 

The amateur detective knocked on the base of the umbrella holder, “A false bottom, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I saw a chisel lying around here... somewhere…” George ventured over to the cluttered armoire, “A-ha! Catch!”

Nancy caught it neatly and pried the wooden plate out from the bottom of the holder.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense!” 

“More coins,” Nancy showed them the pile of sixteen, eight stacks of two. 


	12. Daughter

“Ms. Buchard?” Mrs. Callingwood knocked on the door of the guest room.

Nancy, George, Bess, Gramps Marvin, and Mr. Marvin stood behind her in the hallway, waiting.

“Ms. Buchard?” the hostess tried again and checked the knob, which was usually locked when the boarder was in. 

This time, the door swung open. The room was small, but neat. The bed was made and a single battered suitcase stood ready at the foot of the bed.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” George asked, looking out the open window that the trellis that seemed sturdy enough to hold even an adult.

“I… I didn’t know she was gone,” Mrs. Callingwood confessed, “She usually always tells us when she’ll be going out. The poor woman, I think she’s had a rough time. She always seemed a little… on-edge.”

“ _ To whom this may concern… _ ” Nancy read the note propped up on the dresser, “May I?” 

“I… I suppose it’s meant for us…”

The red-head needed no further encouragement. 

“Jeepers, it’s codified,” George looked over her shoulder. 

“The diagonal stripe with the nick in the middle could be an ‘E’,” Bess found the frequency pattern quickly, “which would make these three letters together the word ‘the’ and if you take those to be ‘T’ and ‘H’ then you can figure...”

“These two letters could be ‘my’ which would make these three letters ‘you’ and...” Nancy added, storing the words in her mind as her bright blue eyes jumped back and forth across the stationary, “My sweet girl, I realized too late that I loved you. And then I lost you just as I had before. I will find you again. I am coming to you this time, Agathe. I will see you soon.”

“Who’s Agathe?” Mr. Marvin puzzled. 

“She’s dead!” Bess sobbed into her father’s belly, “Oh  _ dear _ , we’re too late! It’s a suicide note!”

“Mrs. Callingwood,” Nancy comforted the shaking woman, “when was the last time you saw Ms. Buchard?”

“At dinner last night... Oh, I  _ should _ have come to check on her sooner when she didn’t come down for breakfast, but she could sleep an entire  _ day _ sometimes and  _ only _ come down for dinner…”

“It’s alright, it’s not your fault,” the girl assured her, “May I use your phone to call a detective, a friend of ours, who can… take care of things.”

Mrs. Callingwood sniffed into her handkerchief and directed her to the phone in the downstairs hall.

After talking to Detective McGinnis, Nancy jogged back up the stairs to Mr. Marvin, “Remember the figure we avoided on the road coming here?”

“Yes… You don’t think…”

“I have a hunch.”

“Alright, let’s go!”

“George? Bess?” Nancy turned to her friends. George was, of course, eager. But Bess shook her head slightly as she held Mrs. Callingwood’s hands in her own.

“But Gramps, you should go,” said the blonde.

The old man dropped a kiss atop her head and left with them.

“She’d take a direction away from the Callingwood’s…” George surveyed the vast fields on either side of them.

“So… should we call out?” Mr. Marvin paced up one side of the road and down the other, “It might not be a good idea if she doesn’t want to be found…”

Nancy planted herself in the middle of the uneven country road, closed her eyes and walked. She stirred up in her heart the words Claire Buchard had left,  _ ‘my sweet girl,’ ‘too late,’ ‘I loved you,’ _ and soon she was walking with a more staggered gait, as though the burden she carried was physical. Nancy remembered the cold, hard rain, how it had pelted at her in her poncho. Her arms went from assisting her balance at her sides to being wrapped tightly around her torso. She fell a few times, got back up, and kept walking.  _ ‘I lost you,’ ‘I will find you,’ ‘I am coming to you,’ _ and she could feel the tall wild grasses brushing up against her shoulders, but she ignored them, squeezing her eyelids fast.

The ache she felt was deeper now and she suspected it was her own.  _ ‘I love you,’ ‘I am searching for you,’ ‘Do you want to be found?’ _ Her foot made contact with something and her bright titan hair disappeared beneath the thin green grasses. A body broke her fall and her eyes snapped open. 

“Ms. Buchard!” she cried, checking for a pulse, listening for a breath, and choking in relief when she found one.

“Nancy!” George helped her up.

“Nancy!” Mr. Marvin reached down to carry Ms. Buchard.

“Detective, you’ve done it!” Gramps went back to bring the car closer.

“What’s wrong, Nance?” George noticed her friend’s tear-streaked cheeks.

“Oh,” the girl pressed her palm to her chest as the ache there subsided, “I’m just happy we found her.”

It was several hours before Ms. Buchard woke and it was another day before she was lucid enough to hold a conversation. 

“Leave me!” she pleaded, “Just  _ leave _ me!”

“Ms. Buchard, please,” Detective McGinnis sat at her bedside, “we can’t help you if you don’t explain -”

“ _ I’m past help! _ ”

McGinnis reemerged from her room after that.

“I brought tea,” Nancy held up a small tray, “Maybe it will calm her down a bit.”

“Be my guest,” the detective held the door open for her.

“Good morning, Ms. Buchard,” she poured a cup, “Should I call you Ms. Buchard? Or do you prefer Mrs. Stuoli?”

The pale woman was surprisingly strong as she knocked the china from the girl’s hand and gripped her wrists tightly, “Who…  _ who _ do you think I am?”

“A mother who lost her daughter,” she signalled for McGinnis to halt his advance, but he came to stand guard closer nevertheless, “And I’m a daughter who lost her mother. My name is Nancy Drew. And you are?”

“... I…” the woman released her hold on her, “I’m Nina… Buchard is my maiden name. I got it back after we… my husband and I separated. Claire was Agathe’ second name.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Nancy had brought a second cup for such a reason and gave it to the woman, “Can you tell me about your family?”

“I… I don’t have one… anymore.”

“Only if you forget. And talking about them will keep that from happening.”

“... Leonard… My former husband… He was a  _ good _ man. We just weren’t right for each other and  _ I _ wasn’t ready for… I was  _ so _ much younger than him, you see? So he took care of Agathe… raised her into,” she pressed her lips together tightly, “into a  _ beautiful _ young woman,” she squeaked through her tears, “I got to meet her once… when she landed in New York after… after Leonard’s death…”

“Leonard… who was a good man…” Nancy prompted.

“Oh, well, I suppose it hardly matters now, does it? Roads to hell and all that…”

“So you knew about his… livelihood.”

“But it wasn’t for him!” she insisted, “It was for  _ Agathe _ . He… he said someone had picked her up from school and taken her home, claiming to be working for the university. They passed a message through Agathe, saying they have a job for him… He  _ wouldn’t _ have done it otherwise. He had too much  _ respect _ for history.”

“Did he ever mention the name, ‘Pops’?”

“... No… No, I don’t think so.”

“What about Henry Fletcher?”

“No… but  _ I _ know that name…”

“How?”

The woman eyed the detective nervously, but plowed on, “I helped Leonard market his smuggled goods through Henry Fletcher’s… organization. I joined the gypsies so I could be mobile and mostly undocumented.  _ No one _ blackmailed me like they did Leonard. I did it of my  _ own _ volition. The more helpful and useful we were, the less they would come for little Agathe. They did this regularly, you see? Picking her up from school, showing up at her art classes, following her home from work. Agathe didn't feel safe anymore. She wired me money without telling me and said I needed to bring her to America when she was ready.”

“Ready?”

“She’s  _ loved _ Greece all her life and  _ hated _ America as soon as she stepped off the plane. It was hard for her to leave the life she had there, her school, her friends.”

“Did your plan work?”

“Yes,” a hint of pride was evident in her voice, “ _ Years _ went by without incident… Until Leonard… Then I brought her here. She was going to clear both her and her father’s name at that trial but… I only ever worked with that  _ stupid _ blonde wig. And I  _ know _ they made a mistake. They  _ meant _ it to be me. They killed Leonard, I  _ should _ have been next, but they took my sweet little girl instead…” tears and mucus streamed down her face, “I  _ tried _ living with it. There was some old inventory of Fletcher’s, not important, I could sell it to make my way... He gave it to me for free when he learned the truth… It’s a funny thing about mobsters, isn’t it? They’re actually family men, a lot of them… Better people than me -  _ ha! _ ” she hiccuped and wouldn’t speak anymore after that.

  
Impulsively, Nancy embraced her with a raw fierceness, “ _ Thank you _ , Nina.”


	13. Heart of Gold

Carson answered when McGinnis called the Drew residence on Monday, “I beg your pardon? … Alright, I’ll make some calls this afternoon… How’s Ms. Buchard doing? … Well, in that case, she’s in the best hands… Talk to you soon.”

The lawyer arrived at his daughter’s school just as the final bell rang.

“Dad?” Nancy jogged up to the driver’s window and kissed his cheek, “What are you doing here?”

“Detective McGinnis called. His wife’s treating Ms. Buchard at the county facility and Mr. St. Paul from Interpol says given her condition, she’s a good candidate for a reduced sentence.”

“That’s great news!” she climbed into the passenger seat, “But you didn’t need to come here in person to tell me that.”

“I thought you might like to join me in paying Professor Shannon a visit.”

“... At the university?”

“Yes… you enjoyed her lecture last time?”

“Oh, yes,” Nancy said immediately, “Let’s go right away before classes end… Why are we seeing her?”

“McGinnis talked to Henry Fletcher. The mob’s been under a lot of pressure lately, it seems. Hunting for something the mysterious Pops wants that went missing in shipment. A codex  _ chrisecardia _ .”

“ _ Chrysí Kardiá _ ,” Professor Shannon corrected him when they met in her office, “It means ‘heart of gold’ but I’ve never heard of any such codex.”

"Well, let's start looking then," Deirdre spoke up suddenly, going over to the bookshelf and throwing down volume after volume much to their horror.

"Deirdre, baby, stop," the professor attempted to carry her off the ladder, but took a book to the head, "Oh!"

Carson, ever the gentleman, came to her aid and helped her to the chair behind her desk, "You're not bleeding. That's a good sign…"

Nancy stacked the fallen books carefully on the desk. There was one on the evolution of the Greek language, several codex indices, and one on Greek archeology and metallurgy. "Say, Deirdre, I think you might be onto something!"

"Of course, I am," she sniffed derisively, cracking open the linguistics book.

"Right…" her mother smiled tightly and joined the search. 

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Carson.

The professor gave them their assignments and they eliminated possibilities from their list one by one for the next five hours. 

"Mom, I'm hungry!" Deirdre pouted, shoving the last book away and turning to the lawyer, asked pointedly, "Are you  _ sure _ you got the name right?"

"Positive,” he remained amicable, “The detective said it  _ just _ like that."

"Well, then  _ he  _ must be wrong. Can we go home now?"

"How about we all go for some burgers and fries?" suggested Professor Shannon addressed the whole group, "I owe you an apology for not being of much help, I'm afraid."

Carson helped her into her coat, "Nonsense,  _ we _ owe you an apology for taking up so much of your time."

They drove in Carson's car to a diner popular with the university's students.

"I don't know much about Greek history," began Nancy, "but mythology is quite important isn't it?"

"Ah, you think the codex's truth might lie in a legend?" the professor sipped her soda delicately.

"What better place to hide it than in plain sight?" the girl’s sapphire eyes twinkled.

"There aren't any legends of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, that connect to any codices we studied," said Deirdre, "And any other references to hearts are just gruesome and related to war and death."

"Maybe we're meant to take the phrase as a whole," Carson proposed, "Someone with a 'heart of gold,' who is good even though it causes them harm. Like Io or Prometheus."

"Prometheus is more likely," Professor Shannon grew animated, "He's a trickster and a thief."

"The Soul Cleanser," Deirdre realized, "A rare alchemy codex with instructions for saving one's soul from Hades. For rendering your _heart_ _pure_. It references the use of fotiá polýtimos líthos, meaning precious fire stone - there's your Prometheus connection."

"No one in the academic community  _ really _ believes it exists," her mother clarified.

Carson and his daughter shared a look. This had to be what they were looking for. 

  
  


**Bonus scene:**

"Hi, Mom," Nancy set the flowers down at the fresh, unweathered grave stone, "I know it's silly, but I keep thinking… I keep thinking I can find you again. I keep thinking that one day - and I don't mean when  _ I _ die kind of “one day”, I mean like when baseball season's over and you come home kind of “one day” - we can be together again. Like I said, it’s silly. 

"I know Dad still visits you. I'm sorry we can't come at the same time… we'd just never…" the girl bit her lip and blinked rapidly, "we'd just never stop missing you if we did… never stop mourning… And Aunt Eloise says you wouldn't want us to be sad forever… but isn't it just a  _ puzzle _ how the rest of the world can keep living when for one person the world… this world doesn't… doesn't mean  _ anything _ anymore.

  
"I keep looking for you… I don't ever want to stop… I don't ever want to stop seeing you in our home… in Dad… in me," she stood and swallowed hard, " _ I love you _ ."


	14. Hardy Brothers

Bayport had the uncanny ability to be incredibly sunny and so very windy at the same time. In sweaters and sunscreen, the Hardy Boys walked along a stretch of beach that tourists didn’t much care for because of how close to a triplet of jagged, rocky cliff-faces it was. 

In his confession, the wigmaker stated that once when he’d incorrectly filed some inventory - the coins Nancy had been finding all over Illinois - he’d been brought to a small boathouse that had been covered in moss and barnacles even on the inside. His eyes had been covered while they drove him there, so he didn’t know where it was, but Pops had been there, or at least, a man claiming to be the smuggling mastermind.

The Windbreakers, as the cliffs were called, were full of little coves and bays that flooded completely in high tide. Frank and Joe descended down the sloped face into one of them. 

“We ought to split up,” said Joe, “We’d find it faster.”

“You want to try climbing out of here by yourself faster than the tide in a spring storm, be my guest,” Frank gave him a mighty boost up the slippery rock.

“Alright, alright.”

The boys continued on, stopping for a picnic brunch their Aunt Trudy had packed when the tide came in, and resuming when it flowed back out. 

“What clues do you suppose we could find if the water washes everything away?” Joe wondered aloud. 

“Something that got caught in the rafters, in some rigging, or something locked in a cupboard, something heavy -”

“Just wanted to make sure we didn’t miss a glaring moot to our point,” said the blond boy. 

His brother lowered him into a cavern with just a wide gap where the water would rush in from the ocean about two feet above their heads when they stood inside.

“We found it, Frank!” Joe exclaimed, turning on his flashlight and scanning the otherwise empty cave, “Golly, why build a boathouse when you could never get a boat in here?” 

“It looks like it was built before the opening was blocked off. These rocks must’ve fallen down the cliff at some point.” 

“Making it the perfect smuggling hideout!” Joe peaked through a knot hole in one of the boathouse planked walls, “Or not, it’s completely empty!”

“It’s padlocked,” Frank frowned, “I can’t pick this.” 

“Maybe you won’t have to…” Joe pulled at the wood that had been soaked and dried so often, it had lost most of its integrity. 

The minute his brother joined his efforts, it gave way. 

“I loosened it,” the younger of the two made sure to quip.

“It’s not a competition,” was the ever-practical response. 

They combed over the space carefully, checking every nook and cranny. Joe climbed up to the rafters and whooped suddenly, giving Frank a start.

“There’s a little metal box here filled mostly with ashes, but I think our smugglers used it to communicate!”

“Joe,” from below Frank heard something splintering.

“There’s one piece of paper…” He was so absorbed in trying to read the bleeding ink, he didn’t hear him, “3-6-N-Y-B-O-H.”

“Joe, don’t move,” the older boy was scared to even breathe too vigorously.

“Could it be a license plate? Or - whoa!”

The rafter snapped suddenly and Joe came tumbling down. Frank rushed forward to break his fall and managed to do so, even if he got the wind knocked out of him and a harsh blow to his lower leg. 

“Frank! You alright?” the younger brother fretted, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

When he saw the water rushing in from the crack above them, the dark haired boy decided it was not a good time to say that he had in fact tried to get his attention. “Let’s get out of he-ah!”

“What’s the matter?”

“My leg… it’s stuck under the rafter.”

“Hold on,” Joe attempted to lift the beam by himself, then tried leveraging it against an old tire that was lying around.

The water rose past Frank’s shoulders. “Joe, you have to get out now.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Joe -”

“I’m  _ not _ !” and with a final, desperate heave, the sodden, heavy beam lifted just a centimeter, but that was enough for Frank to grasp his leg with both hands and pull it away.

Joe helped him up through the crack and then hoisted himself up.

They laid down on the rocks a while, breathing heavily.

“Let’s... just…” Frank winced at the pain in his leg, “become bankers or something.”

“Eh... we’ll see how... long that... lasts,” Joe gasped out, the tightening terror finally making its way out of his chest.

“Hey… remember what… Dad’s files said… about where Agathe Stuoli was staying under witness protection before the trial?” 

“Big Old Hotel,” Joe sat up to check his brother’s leg, “the vintage 1800s place, yeah, why?”

“B-O-H? That’s their logo insignia, right? They’re in NY - New York?”

“Well,” he helped his brother stand, “obviously, they knew how to find her; they killed her.”

“Yeah, but there _is_ _no_ room 36, so what does _that_ mean? And why leave the paper behind as evidence? Tell me you still have it.”

“Of course!” Joe pulled it carefully out of his jeans pocket.

Frank held it up to the sunlight as he limped along, “The ink’s bled a lot, but you can still see where the original lines were drawn… It looks a lot like her handwriting from Dad’s files, Joe. She left us a clue.”


	15. Evidence

“Aunt Eloise!” Nancy ran into the woman’s arms.

“Hello, hello!” she swung her about, before setting her down and hugging her brother tightly. 

The teacher noticed a healthier glow about them both, but knew she needn’t mention it. “Come on, let’s get you settled in.”

“Actually, El,” said Carson, “We were hoping to go to the Big Old Hotel right away. We’re meeting Fenton Hardy there.”

“Then leave Nancy with me and pick up your evidence quickly so you can join us for -”

“Oh, no, this is Nancy’s case,” he held his daughter’s shoulders proudly, “We’ll be in time for lunch, won’t we?”

“We promise!” the girl assured her stylish, short-haired aunt, who wished them good luck.

The traffic was tolerable by New York standards from Aunt Eloise’s apartment to the hotel. 

“Boys, long time, no see!” Nancy was pleasantly surprised to meet her friends on a school day, “Frank, what happened to your leg?”

“Rotting boathouse in a subterranean cave,” he shrugged, hobbling along on his crutches.

“So, the usual,” his brother added.

“Where do we start looking?” asked Nancy.

They told her about the mysterious number 36, which didn’t exist as a room, floor, table in the dining hall, parking spot, or anything seeming to do with the hotel.

“Of course, it’s smudged pretty badly,” said their father, the private investigator, Fenton Hardy, “but we’ve considered BG, and the like, those seem even more unrelated. I’ve reached out to my old buddies at the precinct and they don’t have anything on record. I’ve questioned the hotel staff to see if they remember anything about her or her room, but came up empty-handed, naturally. What do you think, Carson?”

“Nan and I got the key to her old room at the front desk. Just so we can do our due diligence.”

Nancy found a forgotten ladies’ undergarment lodged in the back of the dresser, but the rest came up empty. 

“How about a phone number?” Nancy picked up the receiver on the nightstand and tried BOHNYBG, then 3OHNY3G, then B0HNYBG, and continued on this way until she had established that not a record shop, doctor’s office, retired couple, journalism student, nor aspiring actress had anything to do with Agathe Stuoli. “Oh, it’s right under our noses, I’m  _ sure _ of it!”

“It was a good hunch, Nancy,” Frank encouraged, “We just have to keep thinking.”

Nancy let her eyes flutter shut as she tilted her head back in thought. When she opened them, she saw the wide ceramic tiles that made up the ceiling of the room. Six to a row and there were six rows. That was a rather coincidental design choice, wasn’t it? “Was the ceiling always made of tile?”

Fenton glanced upward briefly, “Yes, why?”

“How tall was Agathe?” Nancy got down on her knees to examine the hardwood floor. It was very old and difficult to distinguish any wear that might’ve come from a chair standing away from its usual place by the desk.

“Five-five, what are you thinking, Nancy?” Joe was always ready to jump into action.

“Add the chair, she can reach the ceiling easily. Thirty-six from which direction is the only question left and it looks like…” she peered up at each corner in turn before settling on the one near the bathroom door, “Agathe shared her father’s eye for detail, being an artist herself. Where her father used his talent for refurbishing ancient treasure, she used hers to hide something she must’ve felt was very important. I believe it’s behind this tile. The adhesive hasn’t yellowed like the rest.”

Their fathers went to speak to the manager, who after some persuasion and a deal that involved the hotel being compensated for any damage, relented provided they would use their own contractor. Mr. Morton, the father of Frank and Joe’s friend, Chet, was happy to oblige, although he couldn’t leave the farm before noon.

Eloise ended up joining them for lunch in the dining hall and they were all buzzing, taking turns getting her up to speed. Now they began to discuss what Agathe could have hidden. All except for Nancy.

“Jet lag?” her aunt rubbed her shoulders soothingly.

“Hmm?” she looked up from her largely untouched plate, “Oh, no… I… I was just thinking… I was thinking how very likely it is that… that Pops… whoever he is… didn’t get it wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t mistake her for her mother. How could he when even with her blonde hair, she looks so much like her father?”

“But wasn’t Leonard doing everything Pops asked?” Even Nina went above and beyond to secure Agathe’s safety -”

“But none of that would help if Agathe took the codex.”

“But… why?” mused Frank, “Why would she?”

For that, Nancy didn’t have an answer.

“Hardys!” a jolly voice rang out.

“Mr. Morton!”

Their anticipation was practically bouncing off the walls of the hotel room as Mr. Morton set up his ladder and began to chip away at the adhesive before gently lowering the tile onto the floor with Carson and Fenton’s help. 

He reached inside and brought down a heavy hat box.

“Nan, you should do the honors,” said her father.

She uncliped the fasteners and unfolded the tissue paper. A deep sadness crept into her eyes first, then across her young, freckled face.

An expert from the Smithsonian would later confirm that it was indeed the genuine codex  _ Chrysí Kardiá _ . They were all sworn into secrecy by Agent St. Paul so that Interpol might use it to bait the as of yet unmasked Pops. It was a secret they were willing to keep. 

After some lengthy conversation with Nina Buchard, they learned that Agathe had some selfish tendencies as a child that were never curbed by her doting father and through the lens of her own guilt and later devotion as a mother, Nina failed to see it too. 

A few days later, Carson Drew put down the phone feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He found his daughter sitting by the window in Eloise’s guest room. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

“For what, Dad?” she turned to face him and her runny nose betrayed the fact that she’d been crying despite her dry eyes, “For destroying a mother’s memory of her daughter?” Nancy shook her head and pressed her lips together, “It’s not what I was hoping to find… Not at  _ all _ … How can someone be so greedy that they’d risk their only family?”

“I understand why that line of thinking concerns you, as it should… And now you understand that in our line of work, it’s our job to follow the evidence… sometimes it’s not pretty.”

“I just wanted to understand… if I could... why Mom… why Mom’s not with us anymore. Why Henry Fletcher wanted your files on Agathe... Perhaps he suspected that she had the codex all along... Maybe  _ he _ is Pops...”

“How are you always one step ahead? Yes,” he looked at his little red-head in wonder, “Yes, I just spoke to Mr. St. Paul. They got him.”

“That’s… that’s good,” she managed a small smile and leaned her head against his strong shoulders.

“Nan… the only evidence you need to trace now is this: Every smile and hug and kiss your mother ever gave you. Every game she ever played no matter what  _ anyone _ said about girls and sports because she  _ knew _ what girls like her daughter were going to be capable of. Your mother  _ loved _ you with everything she had in her and somehow through space and time I believe she still does. And after everything you’ve done to get here, any jury would come to the unanimous conclusion: the love you have for her isn’t the kind that could ever lose it’s way.”

Nancy took a deep breath in. There was her father’s perfume and her aunt’s cleaning products - different from the ones Hannah uses at home. After a quick glance into the street below, she could describe the make and model of the ten parked cars outside. But she closed all of that out as she wrapped her arms around her father’s waist and said, “I believe it too.”


End file.
